Jerry Lewis - The Total Film Maker - Matilde Carreon

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To my lady: Patti
 
Whose love, patience and wisdom
 
never diminished
 
while waiting for me to grow up
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 
My sincere thanks to Dr. Bernie Kantor, Professor Arthur 
Knight, Professor Irwin Blacket and Anne Kramer for their 
inspiration. 
And to my students who taught me so much about teach­
ing, especially Peter Arnold, Dicil Walters and Alan Swyer. 
Plus a deep bow to Rusty Wiles, my cutter, who, along 
with every member of my crews over the years, gave me the 
information and gUidance that allowed me to accept the 
position at the U .S.C. Cinema Department with a feeling of 
qualified humility. 
TO THE READER
 
As a kid I wanted to be a writer, but at fifteen was shocked 
to learn there were people like Saroyan and Hemingway 
doing the same thing-and no matter what happened to me 
and my work, they persisted and went ahead without me. 
Twenty-five years later I found myself teaching at the 
University of Southern California-no, not writing, but 
just about everything else having to do with making film. 
You can imagine my surprise when Random House wanted 
a book from me on the total film-maker. I said I'd write it­
they said, "Don't." Upon asking, "How do I write a book 
without writing?" they answered, "You tape every class and 
your book will be everything you said, with your by-line." 
Hence the following pages represent a half million feet of 
audio tape compiled, examined, listened to, transcribed and 
finally edited into respective categories. 
I think I love films and those who love them better than 
just about anything else in the world-and I hope when you 
read this book you will become a part of the already over­
whelming number of film-loving people. 
J. L. 
f l 
CONTENTS
 
TO THE READER ix
 
PROLOGUE
 3 
Part One-PRODUCTION 
I The Humanities of Film
 9 
2 The Total Film-Maker 20
 
3 The Money Man
 
4 Script and Writer
 
5 Actors
 53
 
6 The Million-Dollar Hug 66
 
7 Pre-Production Chores 82
 
8 The Crew
 99 
9 Homework 110
 
10 Filming It! 118
 
Part Two-POST-PRODUCTION 
I I Editing 
12 Music and Dubbing 
I 3 Distribution and Exploitation 
14 Other Film-Makers, Other Films 
Part Three-COMEDY 
15 Laughs Are Our Thing 
16 The Visuals of Comedy 
17 The Comedians 
KIND OF A WRAP 
The Total Film-Maker
 
PROLOGUE 
The total film-maker is a man who gives of himself through 
emulsion, which in turn acts as a mirror. What he gives he 
gets back. 
Because I believe in what can be done with film in our 
big round put-on, I wanted to write about it so that others, 
the new ones who are driven to work with it, who want to 
say their thing, can maybe learn something of what I've 
learned. So, leaving the over-thirties to wallow in their 
own messes, I am aiming this toward the young, the fired­
up long- and short-hairs who want to lick emulsion. 
Film, baby, powerful tool for love or laughter, fantastic 
weapon to create violence or ward it off, is in your hands. 
PROLOGUE 
The only possible chance you've got in our round thing is 
not to bitch about iniustice or break windows, but to make 
a concerted effort to have a loud voice. The loudest voice 
known to man is on thousand-foot reels. Campus chants 
about war are not going to help two peasants in a rice 
paddy on Tuesday. However, something might be said on 
emulsion that will stop a soldier from firing into nine chil­
dren somewhere, sometime. Now; next year; five years from 
now. Try emulsion instead of rocks for race relations and 
ecology. That, and love and laughter, has to be what it's all 
about. Then you'll survive. Maybe we'll all survive. Maybe. 
Emulsion has the strangest capacity to react. It's almost 
like infectious hepatitis, only germ known to medical 
science that can't be sterilized off a needle. It picks up in­
formation germs. More than that, I really believe emulsion 
picks up the attitude of a film-maker's work. It actually 
"feels" the intangibles. 
When you make a film under stress of one kind or an­
other, emotional or mechanical, or without all the neces­
sary information, it might still turn out to be a good film. 
But no one can put a finger on why it isn't an excellent 
film. The intangibles! If it flops completely, you can blame 
pressures, as if anyone wants to listen. 
But the more information you have to apply to the film, 
the easier it is to work, create and design. That applies to 
making crullers, too. But there's a difference. The emulsion 
smells and feels happy. It will make things that are some­
what minor turn magnificent. It's part of the mystery of 
4 
PROLOGUE 
film-making, and no one yet has explained it. It's wrapped 
in adventure, excitement and, sometimes, true satisfaction. 
I have a confession. Crazy. I have perched in a cutting 
room and licked emulsion. Maybe I thought more of me 
would get on to that film. I don't know. I do know that 
plumbers don't lick their pipes. With emulsion, it's easy to 
get turned on. 
The film-maker's commitment to society comes only 
from his hope that society will see the picture. If he 
doesn't care what society thinks, then he's off on an ego 
trip, and isn't my definition of a film-maker. It doesn't mat­
ter what the subject is. It does matter how it is made. If 
the right optics aren't used, and if the actors don't function 
properly, and if the film-maker doesn't have a complete 
understanding of his function, it will bomb-whatever the 
subject. 
You have to know all the technical crap as well as how 
to smell out the intangibles, then go make the birth of a 
simian under a Jewish gypsy lying in a truck in Fresno dur­
ing a snowstorm prior to the wheat fields burning while a 
priest begs a rabbi to hug his foot. 
Where do you start? There's no Monopoly board. No 
Start. Do Not Pass Go. I think you start out by just being 
there, and being curious and having the drive to make 
films. 
More important: make film, shoot film, run film. 
Do something. 
Make film. Shoot anything. 
PROLOGUE 
It does not have to be sound.
 
It does not have to be titled.
 
It does not have to be color.
 
There is no have to. Just do.
 
And show it to somebody. If it is an audience of one, do
 
and show, and then try it again. 
That is how. 
It sounds simple. 
It's not. Then again, it is. 
In what is to follow, I do not want to sound like I am 
anything other than what I am. I have no "isms." This is 
my own statement on film-making, my own point of view. 
6 
one
 
PR@)duction
 
I
 
THE HUMANITIES OF FILM 
I'll tell you what I did to become a film-maker. I had this 
drive and I was curious. Of course, I was already a Jewish 
movie star and that helped get me on the lot. But in front 
of the camera, acting like a movie star. Not behind it~ 
Then one day at Paramount, long ago, I was missing. They 
found me crawling around up on a catwalk over the sound 
stage. I had to know if the catwalks, where the electricians 
and grips do things and sleep, were made of two-by-fours. 
Were they built on a temporary basis? How did they hang 
them? 
Next day, when I had a nine-o'clock shooting call, I was 
in the miniature department at eight, watching thirteen­
9 
PRODUCTIO;\i 
inch submarines being photographed for a Cary Grant pic­
ture, Destination Tokyo. I had to understand why that 
submarine looked full size on the screen. They told me to 
go over and see Chuck Sutter in the camera department. I 
was friendly with all the technical guys. 
Chuck showed me a twelve-inch lens and then showed 
me how they utilize it in the tank. Well, I didn't under­
stand how they got the right dimensions on the sky and sea 
backings around the tank. It made it all look so real. 
Chuck sent me over to the transparency department to 
look at the backings. "Well, where do these backings come 
from?" 
"Th h " some guy says. ey soot ' em, 
Then I went upstairs to see the artwork. It was almost 
nine-thirty when the assistant directorfound me. He re­
quested, politely, for my ass to get back in front of the 
camera. Before the day was over, I was looking at genera­
tors out behind the recording building. Yes, generators! I'd 
heard about them. 
"How do they work? Where do you plug that in? 'What 
does that do? Who turns it?" 
Then I found out there is such a thing as an electrician. 
I shook his hand and bought him cigarettes. "Tell me 
things!" When I found out that all he did was throw a 
switch, I took back the cigarettes. 
Day after that, I saw the assistant director on the phone. 
"Tomorrow's call is ..." And I saw the penciled sheets. 
"Well, who's he calling?" 
I () 
The Humanities of Film 
"Oh, he's calling down there, the production depart­
ment." 
I spent weeks in the production department. They could 
never find me. Or I was by the camera. "Why does that 
turn? How does it turn to what? Where does he get the 
pictures they make? Why does it see people in that part, 
but when it turns over, I see no people? I see a black thing. 
What's moving? That part in front is what? It's a glass 
piece? A prism. Oh, I see. And why does that boom go off 
and I can't step off it unless they give me permission be­
cause it will swing up. Well, why does it do that?" 
"Well, it's counterbalanced." 
"With what?" 
"Mercury. " 
"Oh, mercury. I see. Well, why does he push it? And 
why doesn't the other guy?" 
"He can't. He's not in that union." 
Laugh! Hollow! 
Lights? "You have got to have all those lights?" 
"Yes. " 
"Why?" 
"Because you have to have four hundred footcandle." 
"Footcandle? You have candles you bring in with your 
feet?" 
"No, that's a light measurement." 
He's serious and so am I. 
So in about three years of that kind of running around I 
learned a little. It is not unlike medicine. The mystery of 
I I 
PHODUCTION 
medicine, trying to cure and fix and find out the why, must 
he to doctors what film is to film-makers. They cannot start 
working their mystery until they have much more techni­
cal information than they ever really need. But it's there to 
be called on. 
Then the intangibles! What are they? How many? Can 
I teach the intangibles of film-making? Not really. Maybe 
the only answer is: How do you touch another man's soul? 
It might develop from that. Sit down and say, You're deal­
ing with lovely human beings. Each one of them is an indi­
vidual. Each one of them in his own right a lovely, impor­
tant-to-someone human heing. Some will behave like 
turds, but you must try to understand why. 
As a film-maker, you will find them influencing your ac­
tions. Perhaps the key to the intangibles is intuition. Old 
instinct. Rut the touch question when dealing with people 
is: How do I know when I'm human enough? 
I'm going to use a word wrong because that's the way I 
want to use it, letting the language purists make funny 
noises and feel superior. The word I'm talking about is 
humanities. There is a great deal of confusion between hu­
manism, which means a cultural attitude, and humanity, 
which really means a kindly disposition toward your fellow 
man. Well, for me the word humanities refers to the last 
definition-that important thing, that feeling of warmth 
and love and kindly disposition toward your fellow man, 
the way you look at him, feel about him, treat him, respect 
him and relate to him. 
I 2 
The Humanities of Film 
No matter how you slice it, the most critical aspect of 
making films is dealing with people. Whether you think 
he's a hero or an occasional creep, you must have a rooting 
interest for the next guy and his reason for being on that 
sound stage. He's the key to your technical instrument. He 
can help you to be very good, or he can sabotage you. 
There are many technical-minded people, some hril­
liant, in the industry who can't get a job. The ones who 
function best seem to be very human. They might not he 
as well qualified as the super-technician but they bring a 
tremendous insight to the material and its projection. 
So I maintain we're dealing in a humanities area just as 
critical, in its way, as open-heart surgery. I don't care how 
much technical information you have stored away, you 
blow the picture when you hlow the human end. Every­
thing is going for you-beautiful setup, marvelous cast, 
wonderful sets, crew, et cetera. And then someone says, 
"Good luck. It's your first day. It's nine o'clock. Make your 
first shot." 
"Wha-wha-wha-wha!" 
Here he comes now! Here is Ray Milland and there is 
Ann Sothern! "Ah, Miss Sothern, I saw you on television 
and you were pretty shitty. Now, here's your first 
shot ..." 
Forget it. It's over. Burn the set. Forget it. 
"Mr. Milland, you look a little old tor this part, but we'll 
see what we can do." 
Out! It's over. 
I 3 
PRODCCTION 
Actors will kill for you if you treat them like human 
beings. You have to let them know you want them and 
need them; pay them what they want, but don't overpay 
them; treat them kindly. Give an actress a clean dress and 
see that she gets fresh coffee in the mornings, and other lit­
tle spoon-feedings. She will kill for you. 
I once worked for a director who had a personality like 
Eva Braun's. I was doing a scene, a fall, and told him to 
forget the stunt man. "I'Il fall downstage. You're in a close 
angle and you're low. It'll be a rough cut for you. I'll do 
the fall." 
"Okay, great!" 
I wasn't doing it for him, really. I wanted it to work. Al­
though in the end I suppose I was doing it for him because 
he'd have to cut the film. So I did it. 
"Perfect," he said. "Cut! Print!" 
He proceeds to the next setup while I'm cocked down 
with one leg hanging. The son-of-a-bitch didn't say "Thank 
you," or even nod his head. Just "Perfect." 
He lost me with that one scene, and never got me back. 
I did my funny faces, and took the money; wished him 
good luck, and lied about that. I guess I hurt myself, be­
cause the comedian on the screen wasn't very funny when 
the film was released. 
Frank Tashlin, on the other hand, was great at handling 
Jerry Lewis the comic. He has a feeling for people. Very 
possibly I learned more about the humanities of making 
'4 
The Humanities of Film 
films from Frank than I did from everyone else combined. 
He was a caring director. 
I realize that I am basically a miserable bastard on the 
sound stage. It comes from trying to be a perfectionist. If 
the toilet seat is left up, I faint. 
It's like Queeg and "\%0 ate the strawberries?" 
"Who left the toilet seat up?" 
To work for this kind of maniac, you have got to be 
some kind of dingaling. Yet I get the good dingalings film 
after film, and the rewards are great. I consciously root for 
them, and that is what it is all about. 
The relations with crew are not much different from the 
relations with actors. A strong feeling, for good or bad, 
n1l1S through a crew. They are as adult as I am, and as 
childish. They like to be "made-over" a bit. You are going 
to walk by a grip or electrician? What the hell is wrong in 
recognizing him? I've always done it, not so much for their 
comfort, but selfishly for mine. I'm more comfortable not 
hVing to turn my head away. If I don't know his name, I'll 
say something: "What right do you have to be working 
here, you dirty, lousy old ..." 
It is a wild goddamn but very understandable thing. You 
take a guy who is yawning away, and then suddenly make 
him special by saying, "How's it going? The first day's 
tough, right?" 
And he answers, "Yeh, but what the hell?" 
All of a sudden he's a tiger. "Hey, can I give you a hand 
here?" 
I , 
PRODUCT lOr.; 
If a grip walks past me and says "Hi," but doesn't add 
"Jerry," I act offended, and it's not all acting. "Hey, how 
come I know your name, but you don't know mine. I'm the 
movie star." It works. I want that personal relationship. 
For years I've had a thing in my operationthat I call 
fear extraction. The first thing I try to do with a new mem­
ber of the staff is extract the fear that insecurity, God and 
Saint Peter handed down. 1 try to do it simply-tell him 
that I care, that I don't want to hurt him, that I want him 
to excel, to be happy. Then I'll be happy making what I 
love best, film. It works, too. 
One night on The Ladies Man I had to wrap up a se­
quence or it would have cost an additional hundred thou­
sand. The crew knocked off at eight o' dock, went to din­
ner, and then came back to work until three in the 
morning to finish it. Two days passed before the unit man­
ager told me that the J 16 technicians had all punched out 
at eight o'clock, and had dinner on their own time. They 
contributed the time between nine P.M. and three the next 
morning. Had they stayed on the overtime dock, it would 
have cost something around $50,000. 
That's a pretty good example of rapport, and the 
humanities. It doesn't happen often in this town called 
Hollywood, hut in this new day of making films, it will 
probably happen more. Everyone will be the better for it. 
There are other examples, of course. Rossellini fell in love 
with casts and crews, and told them so. He took trite 
I 6 
The Humanities of Film 
scripts and developed fine films out of love, and the labor 
of love. That love magic enters into it big. 
The funniest part of creative people, particularly people 
who love film, is that they get up in the morning and can't 
wait to run into somebody to hug. A hug does not have to 
be embracing a male, so that the cops pick you up. A hug 
is in the voice; a hug is in the spirit; a hug is in the attitude. 
Kibitz or tease someone to put him down for a second! It 
only takes another second to let him know it wasn't meant 
to be unkind. If there isn't rapport and communication, 
those love magics of film, then the technical information 
isn't worth a damn. 
Hugs, kisses and happy talk don't mean I favor playtime 
on any set. If there's someone I don't like, I have to let 
them know why; then see how well I can function with 
him on a human level. Otherwise, one of us will sabotage. 
There will be shmucks midst all the hugging. They take 
advantage. There is always one who doesn't understand 
honesty when it is laid on the line. He'll try to undermine. 
Get rid of him! Save some sabotage. But care must be 
taken not to let that experience start you off wrong with 
the replacement. The past screwing has to be forgotten; 
the humanities pulled in again. 
Part of what's wrong with the film industry in America 
is a couple of goddamn greedy unions and some crew types 
protected by the unions. But what film-makers, new and 
old, always have to remember is that there are usually I 16 
I 7 
PRODUCTION 
men around who are willing to kill for them. They will 
gladly assassinate as long as there is rapport. 
Humanities go beyond cast and crew rapport. Those 
who are loving film-makers don't hope another producer's 
picture will go down the drain. Sam Goldwyn doesn't do 
that. Louis B. Mayer, who was the murderer of the world 
in business, didn't do it. Mr. Mayer once told me, "If you 
don't want that picture I make to be a smash, you're stu­
pid. Your coming attractions might be playing with it." 
The people who don't root for another guy's film are the 
ones who are fearful their own product will bomb. If there 
can be thirty other film-makers in front of their own de­
mise, it won't be such a bad fall. If they had confidence in 
their own work, the first thing they'd do is pray for the 
next guy's work, because he keeps the theaters open. 
I could be shooting on a sound stage on Vine Street 
when a film like Funny Girl opens in New York. Should I 
worry? Absolutely. That theater may fold if Funny Girl 
goes on its ass. Then where will I go with mine? That's 
healthy thinking. Additionally, I just happen to be a rooter. 
But Hollywood is a pretty strange place sometimes. For 
instance, I took out a full-page ad in a trade paper to con­
gratulate a certain studio for making a certain film, simply 
because I could take my children to see it. I said, "Bravo 
for making a good film." But I didn't hear from the produ­
cer, didn't hear from the studio. Dead silence fur boosting 
their picture. I had rooted in vain. Now I take the trouble 
R I 
The Humanities of Film 
to call attention to what I do. It is no longer a nice thing, 
but rm spelling it out in the future. 
In contrast to that studio's behavior, I remember going 
into Abe Schneider's office at Columbia. He runs that stu­
dio and is a man of dignity and taste. Very excited, he said, 
"Look at what Funny Girl did!" He should have been ex­
cited at the box-office figures. It was a Columbia film. But 
then he added, "The business is churning. How the West 
Was Won, Metro. Warner-Seven Arts, Bonnie and Clyde. 
Did you ever see figures like that?" 
The film-maker who really has the ball park, with the 
bat and the ball and the ground rules, loses none of his 
strength or integrity by dealing in humanities on the set as 
well as throughout the industry. He doesn't have to. If he 
knows his job, he doesn't need to slam a fist down and yell, 
"Coddammit, this is the way .. ," It never gets to that, 
because he is honest with himself, with those around him, 
and he cares for the product. He'll lick the face of a man 
who can make an important production contribution. 
I suppose what I have been talking about is simple, de­
cent human behavior. But it is the most complex thing 
around. Some of it can be cut through with a hug and a 
smile. It is that tangible, intangible basis of it all-the all­
meaning relationships with actors, crews, executives and 
the public. 
'9
 
THE TOTAL FILM-MAKER 
I have some hates in film-the schmuck who works with it 
and, deep down doesn't like anything about it; also, the 
guy who doesn't care how he works. The other-type per­
son I hate is the untotal film-maker who loftily claims he is 
dealing with the "human magic" of reels, dictating what 
the emulsion sees and does, and yet has nothing to say. I 
think he's taking up space. You can automate that kind of 
film-maker. They corne out of a box on a side of a Sperry­
Rand thing that says, "I'll make whatever you want." 
On the other hand, we don't necessarily have to lay on a 
tag of importance only when laboring with what we have 
been told are the issues. I buy the premise that we are, as 
2 0 
The Total Film-Maker 
an international whole, responsible film-makers. We tackle 
an Advise and Consent or a Z. We must also tackle the 
comedy of Dagwood and Blondie with the same care and a 
sense of importance, believing that it will make a contribu­
tion. 
Education is a curse in this respect. The curse on the 
creative level is that often we have been made to under­
stand that only certain subjects are status subjects; certain 
themes, valid. Anything else is viewed over the bridge of 
an intellectual nose and put down. Good Christ, on that 
basis, how can we remain committed and responsible 
film-makers if we are making, by choice, subjects that do 
not fall into those categories? 
I'm living proof of the effect of this intellectual snob­
bery. I cannot sit at certain tables at the Directors' Guild 
because I make what some people consider is a "hokey" 
product. John Frankenheimer waves and hopes that no 
one else sees his hand, simply because I film pratfalls and 
spritz water and throw pies. But I believe, in my own way, 
that I say something on film. I'm getting to those who 
probably don't have the mentality to understand what the 
hell A Man for All Seasons is all about, plus many who did 
understand it. 
I am not ashamed or embarrassed at how seemingly trite 
or saccharine something in my films will sound. I really do 
make films for my great-great-grandchildren and not for 
my fellows at theScreen Directors' Guild or for the critics! 
I'm never going to meet my great-great-grandchildren in 
2 J 
PRODUCTION 
these seventy-some years that may be allotted to me, but 
when they see my films they'll also see what I wanted to 
say. And they won't be purposely bad or uncaring films. As 
a matter of pride, I also hope I look nifty for them. 
I believe that the quickest way to find out your capacity 
for being a total film-maker is to determine whether or not 
you have something to say on film. If the answer is nega­
tive, I suggest saving grief and dropping out. Total film­
making requires the definite point of view. Of course, an 
awful lot is meant to be said in many films, mine included, 
that doesn't get across. That's no crime. The crime is start­
ing out by having nothing to say. 
As long as he is honest unto himself, I am not going to 
put anyone down if he just wants to grind footage, func­
tion only on a technical level, and make money. There is 
nothing particularly wrong with that, but it falls beneath 
the category of total film-making, and should be recog­
nized as such. 
The film-maker constantly skates between himself and 
the audience. Which comes first? Both, hopefully, but it is 
such a fine line, such an intangible line, that the only way 
he can proceed is to first please himself. The discipline of 
the audience is always out there to keep somewhat of a 
balance. And he cannot presume that the audience will see 
his film more than once. They will judge it on that first­
time basis. 
There is no way to put on the table the heartaches, pal­
z z 
The Total Film-Maker 
pitations, dreams and hopes that can't be bought with a 
check. Yet they aren't things you call upon as a starting di­
rector or as one with a hundred film credits. "I, too, shall 
be that way." You are that way, or you aren't. It's the 
difference between a film-loving, total film-maker, or just a 
film-maker. Even if you flop, you're better off with your 
heart in film than if you're just a good mechanic. 
In terms of totality, I think a film I am in, and have not 
directed, is less of a film even though the public may judge 
it otherwise. Dedication can't be bought with a director's 
salary. No one can write a check for concern; no one can 
say to a director, "Here is a hundred thousand, pray for it, 
love it, take care of it, sit at the moviola all night long and 
edit us a masterpiece." The price is really based on X num­
ber of week's work. If lucky, there may be dedication and 
concern-maybe only technical function. 
When you make a film yourself, write it, produce it, di­
rect it, perhaps star in it; a piece of your heart enters the 
emulsion. It stays there the rest of your life, good film or 
bad. So, from a purely personal viewpoint, the film I di­
rected and starred in is a hundred times better than the 
other man's film starring me, simply because of the care it 
was given. Going in, the chances of success are better be­
cause of that dedication. 
Also, as a total film-maker, I'm convinced that there is a 
greater chance of inconsistency when the four separate 
minds of writer, producer, director and actor collaborate. 
I know about spreading one's self too thin-I've lived with 
PRODUCTION 
it year after year-but care is the antitoxin to a thin-spread 
project. 
I want to see four different men make the "Mona Lisa"; 
four men sculpt something elegant, four men make a baby. 
That's my answer to anyone who hits me with the idea 
that committees, three or four central minds, make the 
best films. They often make good films, rarely the best. 
A one-man film effort at least has the potential of being 
a "Mona Lisa." Monsieur Verdoux was not accepted as a 
fine film, nor was Limelight, but both had the potential of 
being Chaplin's "Mona Lisa." They failed. Even so, they 
were better by far than the majority of committee films. 
A man who is going to write, produce, direct and act in 
a film argues more with himself, fights a greater battle than 
any battle with all the other bright committee minds 
choosing to give him static. The battle within himself is 
part and parcel of what makes him a total film-maker. He 
struggles within one mind. One hat fights the other. Often 
the actor cannot stand what the director says. The pro­
ducer thinks the director is a moron. And the writer is dis­
turbed by all three of them. The total film-maker cannot 
lie to any of his separate parts and be successful. There is a 
tremendous inner government within him, and his judg­
ment is severely examined by that inner government. 
The committee way, it's always, "Well, who'll tell him?" 
The committee way, you can walk away from the director. 
Or when you wrap the set at six o'clock, saying, "I'll argue 
with you tomorrow, Mr. Star." The one-man total way, 
2 4­
The Total Film-Maker 
you must eat and sleep with it. You don't win arguments 
because you want to win them. 
Some film-makers can never be multifaceted simply be­
cause they cannot be that objective. It isn't something you 
buy in a store: "Give me three pounds of objectivity, 
please." You have it, or you don't. 
For example, the director-writer hat does not always 
help the multifaceted film-maker. It depends on the kind 
of writer he is; depends on the kind of director he is. A 
lovely thing happens to a director-writer. As the writer, he 
can easily become the director's enemy. Alternatively, the 
director can become the enemy because he has placed the 
writer in traps. However, if you are objective enough while 
wearing the two hats, you will not blame yourself but 
blame "the writer" as if he doesn't exist within you. 
If you're functioning as director at a given moment, it 
takes tremendous will power, objectivity and know-how to 
leave the writer in his office when you are writer-director, 
to leave the producer in his office when you are producer­
director. Yet it can be done. It's even rougher as director­
actor when you sit back in dailies and turn to the cutter, 
"Dump him. He isn't funny. I did something wrong with 
him." Total film-makers are usually objective enough to 
know what they want, what they did right; to admit what 
is wrong. Objectivity will indicate when the film is running 
away on its own. 
In my case, if I believe the character up there on the 
screen is funny I'll laugh at him. There are no egos or vani­
2 5 
PRODUCTION 
ties if he isn't. They are kept in the desk drawer. Egos and 
vanities do come out when you dress up like a movie star 
and watch yourself on the screen. Sitting in the projection 
room, looking at the bread and butter, you become a 
slasher. Noone on that screen has value if he is getting in 
the way. Objectivity has no relatives. 
The total film-maker bears the sometimes expensive 
curse of never being really satisfied. He can approach but 
never gain it. He is driven to this by being rather totally 
identified with his product. So, he must strive for self-satis­
faction. 
I've spent an extra half million dollars on a film because 
of this curse. Truthfully, the film wasn't improved that 
much but I had seen mistakes which I thought should be 
corrected. The comedian I'd cast and directed wasn't 
funny. Whatever pressures were on him, and why he 
wasn't funny, were not of importance. He'd failed. I re­
shot his part simply because I wasn't satisfied. 
Of course, many times a director's design and intention 
becomes something other than what it was meant to be. 
He will lose control of the film if he loses objectivity. It 
will tend to travel its own course in that literal sense. Oc­
casionally, this is salvation. Mostly, it is disaster. Yet all di­
rectors, good or bad, will sometimes accept exactly what 
the film gives them. 
In my own experience, I've gotten some things I really 
didn't intend and found myself accepting them. I could 
z 6 
I 
The Total Film-Makernot decide how much was me, and how much was the 
magic and emulsion mystery. This happens. 
Another aspect of the film-maker's objectivity is the 
practical application to "different." Suddenly, miracu­
lously, he thinks he has done something entirely new. After 
a while, he stops lying to himself, applies objectivity and 
gets around to the realization that some pretty good minds 
have passed along the same route. His "different," or 
switch on past work, remains valid but he sees it in its true 
light. 
It's hell being objective. I've had more retakes on Jerry 
Lewis than anyone else in the production. I use video tape, 
shot simultaneously, for instant viewing of any scene. The 
video camera monitors every take. But I never view the 
tape except when I'm in doubt. One advantage I've had is 
playing night clubs, theaters and concerts. I do ninety min­
utes performing in Las Vegas making audiences laugh. 
Timing tells me what to do and how. If it's working, I 
don't need the audience to tell me. It is right because it 
feels right. The same applies to the sound stage. I view the 
video for mistakes. At that moment, all the objective hy­
phenated hats are functioning. 
Yet it is often torture when you have complete personal 
control. You answer to yourself once you get it. The pain is 
justified when you answer to a bunch of stupid front-office 
morons. Eventually, you may beg not to have autonomy so 
that the morons can pass judgment. You can lie back and 
bleed, whimpering safely, "Look what they did to me." 
2 7 
PRODUCTION 
Autonomy in film, as well as in any other endeavor, is al­
ways a tough rap because it basically deals with your own 
integrity. There is no easy way to shake that schmuck you 
sleep with at night. No matter how you toss and turn, he's 
always there. 
I have to sleep with that miserable bastard all the time. 
Very painful, sometimes terrifying. 
A good film-maker must have the guts to quit. If some­
body challenges what he says, or denies him the right to 
believe what he has said, he must fight back, spit it out, 
and if necessary, walk out. Total film-making cannot be 
approached on the basis of compromise. 
Autonomy, if you are lucky enough to be the producer, 
writer and director, cuts away a lot of the fat but spreads 
the hours. One beleaguered morning you wake up to ask, 
"How does the director, who is a total film-maker, put in 
twenty-one needed hours in a working day?" 
Well, on a nine-to-six basis on the stage, you eat up 
three in camera setups, which leaves six. One for lunch 
leaves you five. Of those five, you talk to actors for two 
while rehearsing and waiting for the lighting. Another 
hour, perhaps, is spent talking to the crew. Before you 
know it, you have two hours of actual shooting time to 
pick up three minutes of screen time. 
What's happened to the other twelve hours? Somehow, 
they sandwich in. In that nine-hour day at the studio or on 
location, you're involved in wardrobe, building or striking 
...
of sets, casting, script, dailies, publicity, money and a sup­
The Total Film-Maker 
porting player's hay fever. Even if you were only hired as 
a director, and not a hyphenate-a producer-director or 
writer-director-you'd still be dealing in most of these 
areas. 
Unfortunately the film-maker cannot design a specific 
sequence and deal just with the actors, the script and cam­
era movement. The design often involves the unexpected. 
The set scheduled for the afternoon's work suddenly van­
ishes. The unit production manager, the nuts-and-bolts 
foreman of the entire operation, coughs, "[eez, they just 
told me it's not ready." 
So the homework of last night is so much scrap paper 
now. You have to do another scene, possibly one you 
haven't really prepared. (Actually, you do nightly home­
work on what has been prepared for months but bone up 
specifically for the next day's work.) The total film-maker, 
knowing all parts of his operation, develops an elasticity 
that helps in emergencies. 
Even without the producer or writer roles tossed in, the 
dimensions of the director's work alone are sometimes 
frightening. There is no such thing as being "just a direc­
tor" in today's industry. When D. W. Griffith walked on 
the set years ago, everything was laid out for him. Today, 
even the key departments of a decade ago are ghosts. It is 
now the director's bag and he must be somewhat multi­
faceted even though he does not produce or write. 
Whatever I am as a producer-writer in this total cate­
gory, I am a hard-ass director. Otto Preminger was a hard-
z 9 
PRODUCTION 
ass director before anyone knew that Preminger wasn't a 
skin disease. A hard-ass director arrives at his iron nates by 
knowing his craft. Few can get to him. That is where 
sound stage strength lies. 
I've found that when you know your racket, you can't 
sleep a full eight hours. You want to work; can't wait to 
get your hands on the god damn film. The strength is al­
ready there and comes from information. Oddly, yet un­
derstandably, the stronger you are in all the know-hows to 
make a total film, the more tender you seem when it comes 
to the cast and crew humanities on the set. Security versus 
insecurity. 
Beyond that strength it turns back to the individual di­
rector and what he is; what he has to say, hard-ass or not. 
Karl Menninger once remarked, "The psychiatrist is not 
good because of what he has learned and what he knows 
by way of texts. He is good because of what he is." It 
applies to directing films. 
I think total film-making has always been misunderstood 
by the Hollywood onlookers. They presume it is little less 
than purest egomania. I don't buy that. I simply don't 
want anyone tampering with what I believe. 
I want to make a piece of crap. If it is a piece of crap, let 
it be mine. Don't add and join. My crap and your crap do 
not meld. Let mine be good crap by itself 
And the only way to retain full control over your piece 
of crap is to hold the reins yourself by being a total film­
maker. 
3 0 
3
 
THE MONEY MAN 
I had a notion to write a film about a crazy bellboy. I'd 
toyed with the idea quite a while but didn't tackle it until 
another completed film ran into a release-date problem. 
Unable to get the desired booking date for it, I still needed 
product in the theaters. So I grabbed the hotel story. 
I planned pantomime for the star's role, a pretty wild 
device for a feature, and knew that would rattle the studio 
executives. It rattled me a little, too, and I knew I'd be 
lucky if it worked. However, I had enough faith in it to put 
up a million and a quarter of my own money. That is a fair 
amount of faith. 
It took eight days to write The Bellboy and I also wore 
3 I 
PRODUCTION 
the hats of producer, director and star. I decided to make 
it in black and white, the quickest, cheapest way, simply 
because of the push for the theaters. It went okay, and I 
shot it in Miami. It took five weeks. 
Then, at the sneak preview, the studio executives began 
to tell me what was wrong. They turn into experts at pre­
views. Naturally, they were preconditioned against it be­
cause of the pantomime. More than that, they were in a 
part of the theater where they couldn't plainly hear all the 
laughs. They concluded I had a bomb and buried me like 
crazy with all kinds of suggestions. 
I listened carefully and made notes like a good pro­
ducer. Then I took the picture back into the cutting room. 
I let them think we were slaving for a day and a half. Actu­
ally, we never opened a can for deletions. We previewed 
again three nights later. They smiled, "Now, Jer, you've 
got a picture." We hadn't made a cut. We had made a 
slight addition. 
The execs had been concerned that the audience 
wouldn't understand why there was no plot. So I shot a 
piece of film opening on a supposed exec of the studio. His 
narration was, "Thepicture you are about to see relates to 
nothing. It is a series of silly sequences. There's no plot, no 
story. And, it's just silly." He gets hysterical with laughter, 
swings around in his leather swivel chair; then yells to the 
projectionist, "Put it on!" 
I made him a real dingaling, a stereotype of a studio ex­
ecutive. They loved that. It made the picture for them. 
3 2 
The Money Man 
And they thought all their suggested cuts had been made. 
One said, "Gee, that's marvelous. What a difference!" 
The Bellboy grossed $6 million (and is still earning dol­
lars) which I shared with the studio. To this day, some of 
these executives honestly believe the film was re-cut. They 
"saved" it for me. 
That experience is an example of producer function, 
both in quickly putting together a film for a specific need, 
and also in resisting changes that are considered questiona­
ble. One way or another, you must sleep with the studio 
executives if you are in partnership with them. 
This whole thing about previews, or sneaking the pic­
ture, is a circus unto itself. An audience preview tells the 
producer and director what works, what doesn't; what is 
thin, fat; needs pace, or needs cutting. You may know all 
the answers before you go in, or you may think you know 
them, but it is surprising to see the picture play before a 
cross section. 
Many people in attendance think they are vitally impor­
tant because of what they write on the reaction cards. Ac­
tually, their spontaneous reactions to the film-laughing, 
crying, belting the guy next to them, or sitting like 
dummies-are the guides to how it plays. 
Once I made a film solely as a producer, although I had 
to finish it as a co-director because of chaff on the set. 
Nothing ever runs smoothly. Anyway, my money was in it 
and I cared beyond the money. The preview was set for 
November 19, and the studio provided me with a list of 
-
PRODUCTION 
eleven available theaters and films playing in them: The 
Brotherhood, Candy, and everything else, from Rabbi Mag­
nin Converts to Ma And Fa Kettle Have Hysterectomies. 
There were some doozies. Only eleven theaters in the area 
had a dual system enabling the running of the separate film 
and sound tracks. You usually do not go to the composite, 
or marriage of the film and sound, until after you've pre­
viewed. Changes are costly if you are in composite. 
"Strike the twenty-ninth of November. Check me out 
for next week. Give me the runs," I said to Rusty Wiles, 
who is my long-time film editor. 
Care must be taken in the selection of a theater. A west­
ern should not be previewed in a theater playing a slick 
bedroom comedy, nor a murder film with a Walt Disney 
production. The wrong audience will be in the house. I 
looked at Rusty's list of runs: Brotherhood's in theaters for 
three weeks firm. That's the only way the distribution 
company would sell it-70 percent to them, and 30 to the 
theaters. I'm dead in that theater, which leaves me ten 
houses. San Diego has TIle Odd Couple. Good movie, fam­
ily show. Okay, Rusty, let's get it. 
But what? It's in the third week. They've only got 
enough people in San Diego to playa full house for that 
one for ten days. So I could be sneaking my picture to a 
cat and an usher. Next week, then. 
Next week went into the following week, and Christmas 
passed. Then they blew the horns for New Year's. Finally, 
\ 4 
The Money Man 
in early January, I said, "We'll go to San Diego and I don't 
care what it's playing with." 
We previewed January II and it was the best preview 
I'd had in thirty-eight films. The place was loaded with 
derelicts. Whole bananas, not just the peels, were in the 
aisles. Sensational! 
But I'd lost the time since November 29. I was against 
the gun if I didn't get to the moviola for any changes on a 
post-dubbing session, or polish, on January 13-1 wouldn't 
make the Easter release. If I didn't make it, I would be 
locked out of distribution in the domestic United States for 
one helluva long time. 
I had two million three hundred thousand in this film 
and other product commitments for two years ahead. 
Without the Easter release I had nowhere to go with it. 
Sure, sell it to television. Lose a million eight. Not this pro­
ducer! 
There is a system called blind bidding. Once the pro­
ducer announces he has product that will be available, he 
can silently sell and book for the release. But if it isn't 
ready at the stated time, the theaters will move on with 
other product. He is locked out for months ahead. MGM 
or Warner-Seven Arts might move in. United Artists or in­
dependents like Joe Levine will take the theaters. So dates 
are highly critical and the producer respects his schedule. 
I made the Easter date, panting right down to the wire. 
The game is called MONEY. 
3 (; 
PRODUCTION 
" " "
 
Most times a producer puts the financial pieces together 
and then drops the responsibility of making the film into 
the hands of the director. Producers vary in functions, 
muscle and ability, but the ones deserving of their titles 
have more to do than play golf. Good ones beat the direc­
tor through the studio gates in the morning. But in this 
changing Hollywood the producer, functioning in that ca­
pacity alone, has fewer creative responsibilities. The direc­
tor is pushing him off the lots. 
There was a time, of course, when Hollywood producers 
could play God as well as Saint Peter. Actors bowed to 
them and directors sent them golf halls. One of the first 
producers I worked for was a marvelous human heing on a 
personal level, but behind his desk he was the original 
Jekyll and Hyde. A wild man with a fantastic capacity for 
being unkind, he was usually so busy attacking the people 
on his payroll that he lost some degree of concentration. 
It took me a while to learn how to cope with him. At 
first, I'd go to his office and say, "This sequence is crap. I 
don't know why you want it in the picture." He'd answer, 
"Rewrite it." 
"You don't pay me as a writer. You want me to write for 
nothing?" 
"Then do the crap," he'd say. 
"But it's terrible. It's going to hurt your picture." 
"OK. Rewrite it." 
3 6 
The Money Man 
I'd yell, "You don't pay me as a writer." 
"Then, do what's on the paper." 
So the night before we'd shoot I'd do a complete revi­
sion. For free! 
On the same picture I went to him with an idea. I said, 
"I got something marvelous. If we can get the kid to want 
to really be like his father, work in front of a mirror ..." 
"No," he answered, "I like it the way it is. Screw off." 
I screwed off but I'd begun to learn. I loved that picture 
and didn't want anything to louse it up. Three days later I 
went back to his office. I said, "You know that idea you 
told the director about the kid, and his father . . . the mir­
ror. That's the best thing I ever heard." 
He said, "You like it?" 
We did it! What's more, the son-of-a-bitch really 
thought it was his idea. I worked that routine at least a 
dozen times with him. 
"Remember that night when we were having a drink at 
Lucey's and you said the girl shouldn't dance? That was 
very smart." 
"Yeah?" 
He couldn't wait to get the broad out of the picture! 
She was out, out, out! It was his idea. 
When I finished my contract, I wrote him a note: 
"Thank you for putting me in the picture business but 
please don't confuse my gratitude with my principles. You 
are a shit." 
A film producer is dealing in big dollar business. If he 
7 
---
PRODUCTION 
has a hot property and a hot concept, he can wheel and 
deal. If his product is worth anything to the studios and 
they like his talent, he can make almost any deal he wants 
within the economics of a given year. That won't last, 
however, past one or two pictures if he isn't successful. 
Success, naturally, instant or otherwise, gives him a "track 
record" for future deals. Continued successwill bring 
backing from outside, non-studio sources. 
The amount of studio control, influence or interference 
with the project is solely dependent on the deal that is 
made "in front," long before the film starts. Under my 
former Paramount partnership I had to answer to that stu­
dio 50 percent of the time. Then I decided it wasn't worth 
it, became a full independent, and now sell my product to 
a "distributor's seal." It could be Paramount, Columbia, 
Metro, or any other releasing company. 
When the film-maker is working on a completely inde­
pendent basis, the studio is actually working for him. He 
can buy their seal, whether it's Leo the lion or the Para­
mount mountain, and their distribution costs thirty-three 
and a third of your profits. He may have a partnership rela­
tionship with them, retaining two-thirds' control of his pic­
ture. It can be another arrangement, with varying percent­
ages, but until the studio obtains 5 I percent he still has 
control. 
Usually the studios charge 3z.5 against the picture as 
overhead, compensation for using their sound stages and 
facilities. That figure can vary, too. If the film-maker 
The Money Man 
brings in a best seller, Marlon Brando and a key director, 
the overhead charge may drop to 20 percent. They seldom 
budge on distribution fees. But where else does the inde­
pendent go? The studios have worldwide distribution or­
ganizations which advertise and publicize, then sell the 
films to the theaters. 
Once I have the general terms spelled out-my produc­
tion company will make a picture for X number of dollars, 
so many dollars for the release-the attorneys on both 
sides go to work on the contract's fine print and I go for­
ward with the production. 
As with all businesses the largest single problem is 
financing. In [970 it is becoming almost prohibitive to 
make a film. I think the greatest contributing factors to the 
problem are unions and feather-bedding practices. I hold 
thirteen union cards and have a positive feeling toward un­
ions. However, they are committing suicide. 
As an example of runaway costs, a certain member of 
my crew earned $40 I per week on a five-day basis during 
the making of Hook, Line and Sinker. Two years previously 
his salary had been $20 I a week, a jump of almost 100 per­
cent in twenty-four months. Additionally, feather-bedding 
practices have been rampant in the industry for years. 
Some unions have agreed to alter them. We shall see. 
A film made for $ 1.8 million five years ago now costs 
$2.7 million. Our total economy has skyrocketed but not 
that much. Two years ago I could hire a good composer for 
$7,500. Now I can't touch one for less than $10,500. Be­
3 9 
PRODUCTION 
cause of all the escalated costs, the producer now thinks in 
terms of a 60 by 40 set instead of a 100 by 80 set. The 
larger one would add production values to his film, but he 
can't afford it. 
Not long ago I had a meeting with my production staff. 
They were trying to shuffle dollars. There was a figure of 
$7,700 to build a set. Yet they told me if I struck the se­
quence and didn't build the set, I'd only save $80. 
I said, "Explain that to me. If I strike the set I should 
save $7,700. How does that work?" 
For three hours I tried to get a plausible explanation. I 
might as well have been talking to Internal Revenue. They 
said, "Well, the fringe benefits ..." 
"I want to know more about Mr. Fringe. I want to meet 
him. I also want to meet Messrs. Pension and Insurance!" 
Those three guys are going to wipe us out of business. 
Mr. Fringe is a goddamn millionaire. Mr. Pension is a bil­
lionaire. With all his money, Mr. Insurance should be mak­
ing pictures. 
Now, Miss C! She is Miscellaneous. Miss C! What a 
bitch! She has more money in the film than I have. The 
only explanation I ever get is, "Well, it's in Miscellane­
ous." 
I looked at her in budgets until I finally said, "She isn't 
in my picture any more. How do you like that? Make her 
someone else. Make her lumber, grip's tools, hammers, 
nails, wire. But no more Miss C!" 
I think she has $3 million of my money and she's living 
down in South America with Martin Bormann. 
4° 
The Money Man 
I usually pay around $ I 00,000 for a script. To the lay­
man that may be a staggering sum, but if the picture is suc­
cessful it is relatively the lowest cost of the production. If 
I write the screenplay myself, as I did in Bellboy, I am still 
working for my company and have to be paid like anyone 
else. I either take the money, accepting the dollars in a 
certain period, or put it into the corporation and defer. I 
do take the money now as an actor. Want me to work in 
your movie, pay me! Other phases I can defer because I 
can't afford myself, silly as that may sound. Tax governs 
deferments and acceptances. These are all considerations 
of the producer. 
A larger and related consideration is profit and loss. 
Years ago the ratio of negative cost of the film to profit was 
two to one. Then it climbed two and a half to one. Now, it 
is three to one. A $ 3 million film must get back $9 million 
before a nickel of profit is seen. It isn't the production cost 
alone. Theater-owner profits, distribution fees, cost of exhi­
bition prints and publicity men's luncheons are lumped 
in. 
Then the firing squad lurks beyond the hangman's 
noose. Taxes-federal, state, interstate, county, cityl 
Someone will claim space and tax the Telstar bounce! 
There is a $5°,000 California state tax slapped on the neg­
ative. If a film is started in November 1970 and bleeds into 
April of '97 J, there's another fifty thousand in surtax. Get­
ting the negative out of the state prior to March I 5 saves 
fifty thousand. However, if the film is started in April and 
then completed, with negative shipped, before the end of 
4 1 
PRODUCTION 
the calendar year, the original fifty thousand is saved. A lot 
of studios ship to New York and cut negative there to save 
the tax bite. 
In the bracket of an independent film-maker, who also 
happens to be the star and has a corporate setup, the dol­
lars are ten to one. When I spend a dollar I have to earn 
ten within that structure. If I can save fifty thousand by 
cutting in New York, I have actually saved a half million. 
These are also producer considerations. 
Cutting costs is the producer's job, but he cannot cut 
three to one. Having your own staff and crew picture after 
picture helps tremendously. I think you can take a two­
million-two production and bring it in at a million eight 
with that crew that works regularly with you, for you, and 
cares enough. That is back to the humanities of making 
film. They can put in an eight-hour day in four, or an eight 
in eight. If they don't happen to like you, or your premise, 
chances are you'll get eight hours in eight hours. 
The producer-and-director relationship is more vital today 
than ever, but it is also slowly becoming dual throughout 
the industry, simply because of the thrust of business. The 
producer's questions were usually the ones the director 
would have to answer anyway. That is why creators like 
Stanley Kramer decided to combine the job, going from his 
former role of producer to both producer and director. He 
found he could save time and static. The same applies to 
4 z 
The Money Man 
Otto Preminger, Billy Wilder and Joe Mankiewicz. To 
me! 
After assuming the dual role, Kramer said he was having 
difficulty maintaining objectivity. I can sympathize. As a 
one-hat producer, I say to the director, "I'm putting two 
million four in this picture. Not a dime more. I haven't got 
it. If you go over that budget, you are responsible for the 
overage." Midway through the film I see that something is 
taking shape; I'm tempted to pump in another hundred 
thousand to give the picture some air, help it along. As 
strictly a money man, I'm a jerk to give anotherquarter. 
As a dual, a producer-director, I may think otherwise. 
I function with an associate producer on all my films. He 
minds the bankroll, does follow-ups and handles details. 
He looks over my shoulder so that I don't sign an actor for 
twelve weeks when I only need him eight. 
He becomes involved in the "mind fights." On the 
sound stage, I might say, "I told you to get me five hun­
dred calves and three thousand black girls with fourteen 
Jews." He replies, "Christ, those fourteen Jews are really 
going to cost us. Why not two hundred calves less?" 
As the director, I answer, "Exactly what I said, and no 
less." 
Early next morning in my producer's office, an hour 
away from shooting, I might turn to him: "What do we 
need with five hundred calves? Knock off two hundred." 
The producer-and-director relationship should be com­
pletely give and take. On One More Time I occupied the 
4 3 
PRODUCTION 
director's chair, happily doffing the producer's hat, as well 
as that of writer and star. The producer of the film saw his 
responsibilities primarily as financial ones. 
Early in the film he came to me to say, "I won't bother 
you on the set." 
"Hold it a moment," I remember saying. "When you 
come on my set it is yours . . . until you want to take it 
over. Then I'll remind you it's mine." 
I told him that when he was looking at dailies and felt 
the need for another piece of film-a close-up or whatever, 
no matter his reason-he should make it known. 
He replied, "I'll never do that unless I think it's abso­
lutely necessary." 
I could not buy that, either. In many cases, the director 
will miss something that the producer has in mind. The 
two roles should not have strict boundaries. I answered, "I 
want you to do it. I'll deliver the additional piece of film 
but I shoot the new material." 
When you're working solely as a director 'you have to 
adjust, function the way you expect your crew to function. 
However, it is difficult for a director to face an overpower­
ing producer. The best way to beat those elephants is to 
see that the actors say the words. He has lived with the 
script; he knows what he wants to hear. Strangely, you can 
get away with theft optically if you let the producer hear 
on screen what he's already read a hundred times. 
We made One More Time in England, which is still an­
other example of producer involvement. Where do you 
44 
The Money Man 
make the picture? Can you cut costs by making it on for­
eign soil? In this case, we did, by utilizing the Eady Plan. 
Under it, and by using an all-British crew and staff except 
for three Americans, we gained an extra percentage of the 
profits accruing in England and its possessions. 
But generally the boom is out of making films overseas. 
A picture that formerly cost nine hundred thousand in 
Italy has climbed to a million seven now. Often, produc­
tion problems on overseas locations far outweigh the finan­
cial benefits. Producers take jets principally to escape un­
ions. Their story could be made just as well in Fresno. 
There is a trend back toward low-budget films in Amer­
ica simply because the studios are up against the financial 
wall as the result of spiraling costs and in some cases bad 
management. But true low-budget films cannot be made in 
the studios. Massive overheads and union costs make even 
low-budget films relatively expensive. A million-dollar 
project is now a low-budget film. 
In this day the producer who can get true value out of 
his production dollar is a genius. And like good directors, 
good producers are rare. In fact, they are becoming ex­
tinct. 
4 5 
SCRIPT AND WRITER 
Over the years, Hollywood has purchased some marvelous 
material and then destroyed it on films. You wonder why? 
I think one reason is that we have a number of creative 
frauds who convert material to suit their own beliefs be­
cause of their own egos. What finally appears on the 
screen in no way represents the book. They defend their 
conversions with nonsense about "inner workings" and 
"the subconscious." Most of it is Freudian garbage. 
So it is rare to see a good book rise above itself on film. 
It only happens when the director and screenplay writer 
respect and fully understand what the novelist had to say. 
And their true function is to project, in cinematic form, the 
+6 
SCript and Writer 
ideas of the original material. They should be capable of 
rising above it without reconstructing it or changing the 
ideas. At its very best, film will add dimensions to the origi­
nal story because of animation and the many cinematic de­
vices the director can employ. 
Finding good properties to film is similar to mining i 00­
carat diamonds. They don't come along often. When they 
do, bidding is high. Even good original screenplays are 
comparatively scarce. Every studio and independent com­
pany is on a constant search for suitable material, and de­
spite the thousands of submissions each year only a few are 
bought. Of those, only one or two are really outstanding. 
I have been in the throes of trying to buy The Catcher in 
the Rye for a long time. WQat's the problem? The author, 
J. D. Salinger! He doesn't want more money. He just 
doesn't even want to discuss it. I'm not the only Beverly 
Hills resident who'd like to purchase Salinger's novel. Doz­
ens have tried. This happens now and then. Authors usu­
ally turn their backs on Hollywood gold only because of 
the potential for destruction of their material. I respect 
them for it! 
Why do I want it? I think I'm the Jewish Holden 
Caulfield. I'd love to play it! That's why actors buy any 
property. Producers and directors buy a property because 
they like the story. Actors buy it because they see them­
selves in a part. 
I buy it for all those reasons. Additionally, Salinger and 
I had similar backgrounds and there is empathy. Yet I'm 
4 7 
PRODUCTION 
not sure that Catcher in the Rye will work with an older 
guy. So, if age gets in the way, I'll find a young one. 
Another aspect of buying a property like this is the op­
portunity to work with an author of Salinger's ability. With 
a Salinger, projects open up; with a Salinger, you kill to re­
tain the basic material. So I'll keep trying to buy his story. 
The work of the director and the writer should be a 
fruitful if not always happy marriage. One cannot function 
without the other. But without denying the director his 
rightful place, I think the writer has the tougher of the two 
roles. It is relatively easier to get it on the screen if the 
script is good, even with production or cast problems. At 
the same time, it is seldom that a good director can save a 
bad script. He can help it, but not save it. Conversely, he 
can take a good script and ruin it, perhaps because of forc­
ing too many of his own ideas into it, or because of a tech­
nical lack. Yet the really good script is like a well-made 
building. It is difficult to destroy completely. It all begins 
with the writer. 
The director must respect the material. If he doesn't re­
spect it, he should have the guts to decline the picture. 
Without respect for it, his chances of success with it are 
few. Better he eats hamburgers at Bob's Big Boy for a 
while than do the script that he inwardly detests. 
My greatest worry in tackling a script I did not write is 
interpretation. I want to be certain that my interpretation 
of a scene is what the writer had in mind. Usually it is self­
evident, but often the words or tone of a scene bring ques­
4 R 
Script and Writer 
tions. I frequently sit down with my writers for no other 
reason than to say: It reads this way with me, and this is 
my approach. Is that right? Is that what you had in mind? 
How many changes are made in the screenplay depends 
on the material, depends on whether it is pre-production, 
the first day of shooting or the twelfth day. And how well 
thefilm is going. If it is the first day, and you've already 
ironed out most of the difficulties, there is not much reason 
for surgery or repair. But by the twelfth day, when you 
have seen film cut together, there may well be reasons for 
script changes. You have opened some scenes wider, have 
deleted some... have risen above the script in some areas, 
and things are not working exactly as planned during prep­
aration. 
As an example, I often got script material that is written 
like a blueprint. It's a visual piece and is really funny but 
does not tell a hell of a lot. Then the graphic artists go to 
work on it, using their imagination, and may go off the 
beaten track. I pull them back. Sometimes they go off the 
beaten track and it's great. "Hey, that's better!" 
Even reading a script is difficult. Few people in the cast 
and crew read it the same way. The actor often reads his 
part, and not much else. A property master will read his 
own ideas into the script. His ideas have nothing to do 
with wardrobe or the art department. If you leave it up to 
them and don't have a captain, the director, you are sud­
denly making eleven different pictures. You're yelling, 
49 
PRODUCTIOI\i 
"Hey, what did you read?" So the director has to set the 
tone and communicate that approach to everyone. 
Directors have always been accused of rewriting unnec­
essarily-particularly by writers. Actually, most of the 
time it is deletion because a scene won't work. You loved 
it in the original script, okayed it during pre-production, 
but when you get to the top of the second page of the 
scene you suddenly discover there is a resolution. It wasn't 
evident until you took it in front of the camera. Oops, 
that's the scene! There is no point in mucking up what is 
already good. 
I have collaborated in most of my screenplays and have 
written nine. When I am working with another writer, my 
greatest contribution, I think, is a clearer technical basis 
for shooting. It makes my homework, the preparation, a lit­
tle less difficult. I try very hard to stick with the other 
man's material, discipline myself, and invent only when 
necessary. 
Most directors do not want to rewrite the script. They 
have more pressing commitments on the sound stage. The 
writer's best insurance against rewrite is to have an under­
standing of the directorial problems. Writing a scene that 
can't be played, no matter how beautiful the words or 
thoughts, is begging for a revamp. 
Some writers work in master scene formats. The word 
camera or suggestions on how to use the camera does not 
appear in the script. They write a play for screen use. Oth­
ers belabor their scripts with endless descriptions and cam­
5 0 
Script and Writer 
era placement to the point where the visual aspect blurs 
the basic story. I'm more interested in the purpose of the 
scene. Never mind the camera. 
I tell new writers to study old scripts. Dig up a copy of 
On the Waterfront. Or more recently, In the Heat of the 
Night or The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are 
Coming. These are scripts that needed little revamp on the 
director's part. 
I have found that the best scripts are written, rewritten, 
and written again before they ever reach the sound stage. 
The director and writer have married to the point that 
chopping or adding isn't an everyday occurrence once 
shooting begins. 
There are directors who are not qualified to work over a 
script; some are not even capable of reading a scene and 
understanding it. When they begin revamping, it usually 
results in a trade-paper announcement that the writer 
would like to have his name taken off the credits. It is 
difficult to blame him. 
The late Ben Hecht, Abby Mann, Sterling Silliphant, 
Reginald Rose and Isobel Lennart are my ideas of heavy­
weights in screen writing. But there are many others as tal­
ented and as expert. 
On my films, those written by someone else, the writer 
stays with the company until the project is finished. He is 
constantly called upon for suggestions and contributions. 
He is not stuck in the cellar. 
Titles? Who knows? The Catcher in the Rye is a terrific 
5 I 
PRODUCTION 
title only because it is pre-sold. It was a best-selling book 
and almost a bible in colleges. West Side Story was a good 
film title only because it was a hit musical. The Bellboy, 
with no pre-sold action, was a good title simply because it 
said in one word what the picture was about. 
For the sequel to Salt And Pepper, the second Lawford­
Davis picture I directed, the distributors, United Artists, 
were fighting for a title. I finally came up with The Second 
Salt And Pepper. 
They said, "Gee, that's pretty simple." 
I said, "Yeh, What else do you want to call it? It is the 
second one." 
"Yeh, Well, call it that." 
"Okay, yeh." 
But who knows about titles? At the last minute the dis­
tributors changed the title to One More Time. 
S 2 
ACTORS 
Before the deal is set, while the attorneys squabble end­
lessly, maybe before a word of script is written, and long 
before the sets are built, before wardrobe is selected, 
you're thinking about cast, a specific type of actor for each 
lead role-later on, the character bits. 
I go through the Screen Actors' Guild book section by 
section, picking the range of faces; then go about picking 
the people out of that range by age, type and style. I sel­
dom look at film of actors or actresses. I've never looked at 
film to cast someone in a picture unless the slate, telling 
me when it was shot and who directed it, is at the head of 
it. The test tells little without that information. 
5 
PRODUCTION 
Every director has his own method, but mine is to have 
an interview of at least ten minutes. I'm not looking for 
them to perform. Rather, I want to know how I feel when 
I'm with them. I never ask a performer to read lines during 
an interview. What does it mean? Reading lines in front of 
one man in an office is like asking a comedian to do a 
sketch with a chambermaid. Office performances tell very 
little. 
I'll give screen tests if I'm interested enough. If they are 
young and new, I want to see what happens when they are 
in the arena. I also test for make-up, wardrobe or for spe­
cific reasons such as optics. These tests, however, usually 
come after I've made the selection. 
Recently I went through the casting routine with a 
young actress. A moment after she sat down, I asked, "Do 
you know anything about our story?" It was a rush casting 
and we hadn't told her agents about the nature of the film. 
"No, but I really don't have to know if I'm right for the 
part." 
I answered, "You're not right for this film. I just decided 
not to use any women. Thank you very much. Goodbye." 
I was that quick with her. She'd turned me so goddamn 
cold. Turned me right off. To her, obviously, it was just a 
job. 
Another girl came in. Jean Shrimpton's sister, Chrissy. 
Want to see an angel face with a pair of warm eyes? 
Chrissy has them. She captured my ear, my heart, my eyes! 
She gave a damn, and I saw her in the part. Maybe a little 
5 4 
Actors 
too young, I thought. But in other clothes? The interview 
should have lasted ten minutes. Forty-five went by, with 
other girls stacking up in the outer office. We talked about 
dozens of things. I felt right with her. 
I suppose it boils down to personally liking them. That's 
a fault but that's how it is. If the girl that I'm about to 
choose as leading lady drops a few words: "I think we 
should bomb Pasadena . . ." Goodbye, again. There are 
directors who can live with them. I can't. Occasionally you 
get a Shirley Temple in the office and a Vampira on the 
set. You try to say adios once again if you can. 
Chaplin, in his autobiography, said that he did not really 
like actors. Alfred Hitchcock has said the same thing about 
them, but Hitch is completely different from any othercontemporary film-maker. A diabolical old bastard, making 
no bones about what he has to do for results-I'd make 
book that his statement was mainly for quoting, part of a 
plan to create hostility within an actor. Chaplin could 
never have worked with actors, to his degree of success, 
without liking them. 
I rate them by height and other physical statistics. 
Height is very important in some pictures. In Salt and Pep­
per No.2 I had to deal with the difference in size between 
Sammy Davis, Jr., and Peter Lawford. I've been dearly in 
love with Sammy for twenty years, but never looked at 
him in terms of height. His talent is so giant you don't 
think of size. Suddenly I was aware that Sammy is a tiny 
man. Maybe five two, five three. 
5 5 
PRODUCTION 
In terms of casting him with a girl, I could easily adjust. 
She could he several inches taller but adjustment could be 
made with the camera, with placing them and with move­
ment. But then I was endangering Peter Lawford, a six­
footer, perhaps distorting him. There was also his leading 
lady to think about. Finally I worked it out by placement 
and camera movement. Disparity in height presents many 
difficulties. 
Ability, personality, name value for a particular part, 
style, height, weight, looks and the probability of rapport 
with the director all enter into casting any role. It's one of 
the more fascinating parts of film-making. 
Actors are a strange breed of people. They are all nine 
years old. They stop at nine. If you want to attempt to un­
derstand actors, read a quote from Moss Hart's Act One: 
"The theatre is an inevitable refuge of the unhappy child, 
and the tantrums and childishness of theatre people are 
not either accidental nor a necessary weapon of their pro­
fession. It has nothing to do with so-called 'artistic temper­
ament.' The explanation, I think, is a far simpler one. For 
the most part, they are impaled in childhood like a fly in 
amber." 
Locked like flies in their million-year-old amber, they 
are all different, wearing different costumes, giving dif­
ferent portrayals at different times, yet basically they are 
all alike-nine-year-old children. 
Speaking now as an actor: tremendous ego is involved 
and we tend to believe that whatever weaknesses we have 
5 6 
Actors 
are justification for our neuroses. That's childlike. If the 
actor were truly adult, in that strict sense of definition, he 
could not act. He's standing up there because of needs. He 
must express himself, be heard. 
A director, whether he's a Wyler or a student film­
maker, cannot run on to the set and yell, "Hey, watch me, 
I'm going to show off." That is what actors do. That is the 
actors need. He's built that way. 
But there's a contradiction, too. Once he is on the set 
telling everyone to watch him, he might also yell, "Close 
the set." They are there so that everyone in the world can 
watch them, yet at the same time no one should be permit­
ted to see them act. Very complex people. Actors and di­
rectors sometimes close sets to the public because of the 
complexity of the scene. More often, they do it because of 
whim and their own complexities. 
They are so like children. If they see the director talking 
to a crew member, momentarily ignoring them, they may 
pout. In the next scene, they won't even listen. Once they 
close their ears for whatever reason, whatever puckered 
petulance, the director may not be able to open them up 
for a long time. Suddenly he is three days behind schedule. 
He has, simply but nightmarishly, a case of a pouting actor. 
Actors are usually waiting for someone not to like them. 
If the director doesn't let them know where he stands and 
what he feels, they sometimes interpret it as a disguise for 
dislike. Most do not have the capacity to say, "He's young 
and inexperienced and has a problem." The problem is 
5 7 
PRODUCTION 
communication. They see it as dislike. Generally, actors 
"rear-view" everything. They see only what they believe 
they have motivated. 
At the start of one film I tried to look in the mirror at 
Jerry Lewis the actor. The director was Jerry Paris and we 
were talking in my office. He asked, "Is there anything I 
can do to help the film?" 
I answered, "If I was directing I wouldn't take any crap 
from the actors. I wouldn't put up with petulance. At the 
same time I'd spoon-feed; do the things that are necessary. 
But I wouldn't give up my dignity and allow them to shit 
on me. So, now you're going to be dealing with a petulant 
goddamn actor." 
I started to explain the difference between The Kid, The 
Idiot, my characters, and me. He didn't quite hear. A week 
later he came over to say, "You are the most petulant, or­
nery son-of-a-bitch I've ever worked with." 
I reminded him, "I told you I was an actor. My call to­
morrow morning is nine. I may come in at nine-thirty. I'm 
doing everything I wouldn't allow an actor to do." 
The minute he said it was okay to be late, I changed tac­
tics. The next morning I was on the set an hour before he 
was. When the crew came in at seven-thirty and asked 
why I was so early, I replied, "Because the director said I 
could be late." 
Paris then understood about actors. 
A few days later he wanted to do something that I 
thought was wrong. I said, "I feel uncomfortable." 
5 8 
Actors 
Paris said, "Get your ass in there and do it." 
I did it. As I reflect on that film, I wanted nothing more 
than strength from my director. I already knew he was 
very human; then I found his strength. 
Of late, I'm getting to the point where my needs are 
... 
lessened. That comes from maturity, possibly peace of 
mind. I don't know. I really don't have to get up in front of 
an audience as much now for the plasma of it. I do it now 
because I really enjoy it and it's fun, The hunger, the need, 
isn't there any more. I do love to act, however. Why? 
There is a tremendous satisfaction in making people laugh. 
It feels good. 
Sometimes the neurotic needs of an actor cause prob­
lems. By continually being late, Marilyn Monroe is said to 
have cost zoth Century-Fox $200,000 on Let's Make Love. 
You hear a lot about that cost but very little about the re­
ported $400,000 loss the sound department brought about 
through use of inferior generators. They were out of syn­
chronization for three numbers of that film. They had to 
be re-shot. Over the years, staff and crew louse-ups plus 
antiquated equipment have cost the industry much more 
than any player's neurotic or unprofessional behavior. 
Any actor has his bad days. Directing Vince Edwards in 
a Ben Casey I requested that he read offstage lines to cue 
an actor. He answered, "I'll be in my dressing room. Have 
the script girl read them." 
I said, "You walk off this set, and you'll stay off." Even 
'i 9 
PRODUCTION 
though Vince owned part of the show, the director has to 
have control, or he won't last the day. 
Edwards started walking. 
I called after him, "I'rn surprised at you, Vince. You're a 
director as well as an actor. If you don't take my instruc­
tions, then you can't come hack on the set." 
He kept walking. 
I told the assistant director, "Keep Vince off the stage," 
then called the studio police to order the set be closed to 
him. After fifteen minutes I realized that wasn't enough. I 
called the producer to say, "If he's allowed on the lot, I 
won't finish your film. You've got two days to shoot." They 
barred him. I had a product to finish and I wasn't going to 
let anyone stand in my way, even one of the owners of the 
show. 
A month later Vince wrote a letter of apology, saying 
that he'd been wrong. As I look back, Vince did not mean 
to be unprofessional, but after five years of that mental and 
physical grind he was entitled to a bad day. He's a nice 
guy and a fine actor. 
Many actors circle only their parts. Nine times out of 
ten that is all they've read. They don't